


The Commune Love Story

by skoosiepants



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-17
Updated: 2004-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-12 21:57:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skoosiepants/pseuds/skoosiepants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione's Second Year at Uni</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Commune Love Story

Millicent was first.

They'd been thrown into the same block a year before, as fresh-faced eighteen-year-olds, and while they weren't fast friends, they got on well enough. Better than the other girls in the hall, at least, as Hermione wasn't the friendliest person to begin with and Millicent came off churlish, more often than not. 

But she genuinely liked Millicent, and she wouldn't have had Oliver otherwise, since the boy had essentially come with their flat. 

"I'll be out of your hair in a month," Oliver had told them with a charming Scottish burr and a boyish half-smile. Hermione had loved him on the spot. Well, in a puppyish, best friend sort of way, as the man was blatantly gay, and Hermione wasn't much for romance, on the whole.

Millicent had met him in one of her varied art classes; TA, on his way out the door to visit California and its vast array of bohemian artist colonies. Or something of that ilk. Hermione really didn't know, and wasn't all the interested in much about art.

It was pretty to look at, and she knew it took skills she'd never been blessed with to create, but she really couldn't be bothered to learn more. All she knew was that the flat was always a mess of paint and clay, Millicent's medium of choice, and that Oliver hmm'd and tilted his head at it and wrote long, pretentious reviews for a pittance at the local paper.

But then Percy came into the picture, and Oliver fell hard for the tall, often prim redhead. So he crashed on their living room sofa, insisting that it was only a matter of time before the boy asked him to move in with him. 

She didn't mind his presence, though - since Oliver had the sofa, most nights Blaise slept on the floor by her armoire, pillow balled up under his head and Hermione's quilt wrapped mummy-like around his body.

Blaise was dark and quiet and never ate enough, although he turned out to be an excellent cook. He came from Millicent as well, but Hermione had long ago made the conclusion that she wasn't very likeable by herself, and that if Millie's friends eventually became her friends, well... that was all right. 

He'd actually been in three of Hermione's classes first term, smiled too much and sat next to her through Wednesday morning maths, but they hadn't been introduced properly until a month into her third term, when she woke up to find him fiddling with a piece of toast at her kitchen counter, frowning into a mug.

"This is rubbish," he'd said, pouring black liquid down the drain and turning to her with one of his wide, too happy smiles. "Coffee round the corner?"

Hermione'd blinked at him and nodded, and hoped he hadn't slept with Millie.

***

For a week in October, Millicent came home smelling of onions, and used a dish towel to clean under her fingernails, which irritated Hermione to no end.

"Bloody onions," Hermione muttered, chucking the rag into the trash with a curled lip of disgust. She wasn't particularly fond of onions, and the scent was so strong it made her eyes water.

"Ah," Oliver said, coming up behind her and sniffing the air. "Either you've been cooking or Millie's got Flitwick this term."

"Flitwick," Hermione stated firmly, not having the slightest idea who that was, but fairly sure it was an art professor. She never cooked, but if she _did_ , she wouldn't ever use onions.

Blaise snorted and leant back against the counter, long arms crossed over his chest. "Hermione doesn't cook," he said, a bit of a smirk in his voice.

"And you don't live here," Harry said, mock-indignant on her behalf, standing as close to Oliver as he dared. "Mooch."

"Neither do you," Blaise pointed out amiably. It was an old argument, and they both obviously enjoyed needling each other.

Harry shrugged, his smile playful.

Hermione knew they were both mooches, and that they both had pretty eyes. She secretly wondered if they were shagging on the sly. 

Harry was in love with Oliver, though, and everyone but Oliver knew. The Scotsman was oblivious, of course, and Harry winced every time the older boy said Percy's name.

He didn't go to uni, but Harry played rugby with Blaise three times a week, and on Sunday mornings he'd drag Hermione to Marmaduke's for raspberry Danish and Turkish coffee. 

The boy had a sweet face, and Hermione thought his green eyes looked huge and owlish behind his rounded specs. He wasn't conventionally handsome, but she couldn't imagine why Oliver didn't see him, especially since he slept sprawled in front of the telly almost every night, inches from Oliver's couch.

Percy resembled a giant stork. Perhaps Harry wasn't flashy enough for him.

***

When the weather turned colder, Blaise and Harry chipped in for heat and Blaise crawled into Hermione's bed. She didn't mind, really, as even with the thermostat turned up the flat was over-chilly and Hermione hated wearing socks to sleep.

On the second Thursday in November, neither Blaise nor Hermione had classes, so they stayed in bed and stared up at the ceiling, talking in hushed tones and pretending their arms weren't touching. 

When they finally dragged themselves out of their warm nest, Harry made them pancakes for brunch, whistling Christmas tunes and shuffling around the kitchen in Millie's terrycloth robe, hair mussed and batter splattered along his jaw. 

"Blueberry or chocolate?" he asked, waving a spatula.

"Fruit for breakfast? You must be joking." Blaise sidled up next to him and poked a sizzling hotcake with his finger before reaching out to rub the dried batter off Harry's face. "You're in a good mood today."

Harry bobbed his head, smiling. "Yeah."

"Happy?" Hermione asked, stealing a sip out of his coffee cup.

"I'm always happy."

"Except when you're not," Blaise pointed out, and Harry's grin grew wider.

"Except when I'm not," he agreed, squeezing Blaise's arm, and Hermione realized how much Harry always gave and how little he ever got in return, and how it never seemed to faze him.

Except. Except when he got that faraway look in his eyes, like he'd been boxed up too long and all his head could see was sky.

Coming up behind him, she wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned her cheek into his back. He twisted in her grasp and gave her a questioning look.

"Nothing," she smiled, because she didn't need anything and she wasn't exactly sure he understood that.

But he said "Good," and gave her something anyway, taking her hand in his and nudging her feet into a three-four rhythm. Harry was slightly off-key and Blaise laughed at them, slumped against the counter, but obligingly tapped his foot and sang along, his voice melodious and mellow and so smooth it made Hermione's spine ache.

"It's the time of year, when the world falls in love. Every song you hear seems to say: Merry Christmas, may your new year's dreams come true..."

Harry's mouth was wide, unselfconscious, his words loud and exuberant, and Hermione, nearly tone-deaf herself, found herself singing the last verse with them both as Harry waltzed her around the kitchen.

After her class, Millicent caught them laughing over half-filled coffee cups and she just shook her head.

***

Oliver came back from his lunch date with Percy in near tears for the third time in two weeks, and Harry pushed Blaise towards him, because he wouldn't - couldn't - go himself. Harry wasn't up to being Rebound Guy, Hermione knew, but she still wondered whether Oliver would ever see him anyway.

Blaise rolled his eyes, but gave Oliver a comforting pat on the shoulder. "Percy's an arse," he said.

"I know," Oliver nodded dejectedly. 

But he still went home with him that weekend, and Blaise stayed up late Friday with Harry, watching _Pride and Prejudice_ and letting him bury his face against his chest. Hermione stood in the doorway and rubbed a palm over her heart. It always hurt worse to see Harry cry, even though she'd known Oliver longer.

When Blaise slipped into her bed in the middle of the night, she rolled up against him and drifted off to sleep with his hand resting over hers.

***

A week before Christmas, Oliver moved out and Hermione and Blaise had a huge row over Harry. Blaise stormed off, so angry he couldn't seem to form any more words, and Hermione realized she had no idea where he really lived, other than with her and Millie. 

But he didn't come back. She told Harry he'd gone home from the holidays and hoped it wasn't a complete lie.

Millicent left for her parents' house in Wiltshire three days later and Hermione sat dejectedly at the kitchen table, staring into a stone-cold bowl of soup. "Happy Christmas," she whispered to herself, then sniffed and wiped her nose with a napkin, blinking rapidly to stave off tears.

She'd pasted on a smile earlier for Harry, waving him off at the train station. He was taking a break, a holiday, visiting some old friends 'til after the new year. She'd hugged him and told him she'd be fine, even though she hadn't seen Blaise since their fight and her head hurt and she was desperately afraid she'd be all alone on Christmas.

Which was stupid. Her mum and dad expected her bright and early Christmas morn.

Still. The soup was cold.

***

On Christmas Eve, Hermione set a bottle of red out to breathe and stood at the kitchen counter, her head in her hands. She hadn't gone shopping since Harry left, and they never kept regular meals anyway, so she had to make do with a third of a jar of peanut butter and pre-sliced swiss cheese. Take-away was too depressing to contemplate. 

She tuned into a Christmas station so she could think of Harry and got drunk on an empty stomach, ending up on the cold bathroom floor, vomiting way past two, with tears streaming down her cheeks and sobs burning her throat raw.

***

On New Year's, Harry rang.

He was at a party, cheers and raucous laughter nearly eclipsing his voice, and she had to shout Hello three times before he could hear her properly.

"Hang on," he yelled back, and then the crowd faded away and Harry was huffing slightly into the cell, a laugh caught in the back of his throat. "Sorry. It's a little wild here."

"I could tell." She pressed the receiver hard against her ear, as if it would somehow make him closer. It was good to hear his voice, and it was so silent in the flat these days. "How are you? How's your holiday?"

"Good, good. Yours? I miss you, you know."

Hermione could sense his smile and her eyes started to prick. She blinked quickly and cleared her throat. "I miss you too," she said thickly. "Not much going on at the flat, though Millie should be back sometime tomorrow." She gripped the phone tightly. "When are you coming home?"

"Soon," he said cheerfully, and Hermione knew the break had done wonders for him. He seemed so happy. "Is Blaise back yet? Can I talk to him?"

"Um..." She trailed off, and then went on carefully, "I haven't heard from him, Harry."

There was a silent pause, then a harsh exhalation. "You haven't... Why?"

"I," she tapped her fingers on the countertop, unsure of what to say, if she should even bring up their argument.

"Hermione, what happened?" he asked worriedly.

"A fight," she blurted out. "We had a fight, Harry. Before Christmas, before he left. I... I haven't talked to him since."

"About what?"

She rubbed the back of her neck and mumbled into the phone.

"What?"

"You," she sighed. "It was about you."

"Me? That's a silly thing to fight about," he admonished, then went on incredulously, "Really, me?"

"Yes, you. And Oliver." Blaise had accused her of coddling the boy. He didn't understand that Harry _needed_ to be petted and loved. 

"Oh."

She waited a beat, but he didn't say anything more. "Oh? That's it? That's all you're going to say?" Her voice was just a tinge hysterical.

"Well," he drew out, and she could practically picture him rocking back on his heels, "that's sweet and all, Hermione, but you and Blaise shouldn't be fighting about me and Oliver. I mean, it isn't something that should really break you up, is it?"

"Break us up?" she asked softly, shaking her head. "Harry, we weren't going out."

Harry dismissed her protest offhandedly. "Of course you were."

"No, we--"

"He cooked you dinner most nights."

"He cooked _all of us_ dinner most nights," Hermione countered.

"He lives with you."

Her fingers curled over the edge of the countertop. "The flat's practically a _hostel_ , Harry. That's hardly telling."

"He gave you a bracelet on your birthday. A very pretty bracelet. That sparkled."

She almost chuckled at his envious tone. "He's a friend," she explained. "A close friend."

"Who sleeps in your bed," he pointed out blithely.

"Er..."

"And I've seen you wearing his t-shirts. Which just about screams 'girlfriend,' you know. Face it, you two are dating."

"I..." Hermione stared at the tile above the kitchen sink, pressing a hand to her flip-flopping stomach. Oh gods. They _were_ dating. "Shit."

"No need for a potty mouth, missy. Details now, did you break up with him, or did he break up with you?"

"I didn't know we were going out!" she cried, frustrated. "How could I have broken up with him?"

"Right. So, let's go with the theory that he's broken up with you. Although I really can't see that happening. He's head-over-heels in love with you."

" _What_?" They'd been going out, and now Harry was saying Blaise _loved_ her? It was just too much to take in. "Harry..."

"And you love him."

" _Harry_ ," she stressed, exasperated. She rolled her eyes and sent a silent 'well, duh,' up to the cracked plaster ceiling. And it was surprisingly easy to admit to herself, despite having been in denial for weeks.

"And you definitely should _not_ ," he continued, ignoring her, "be fighting about me."

"You mentioned that already," she grumbled.

"You should call and apologize."

Shoving a hand into her hair, she tugged on her curls. "Call _where_? I don't know where the hell he is!"

"Of course you do," Harry protested genially. 

"No, I--Oh." Her eyes rounded with realization.

"See? You know."

Well, she _knew_ , but that didn't mean he was actually _there_. "But do you really think he'd--?"

"Yep."

"And now I have to--"

"Oh yes."

"But he hates him!" I _hate him_ , she added in her head. Damn Malfoy.

"Not really."

Which was true. Everyone hated Malfoy _but_ Blaise, who would bear the blond's insults with a grin, then ruffle Malfoy's hair affectionately and murmur "Ruddy bastard" in such a way that alternately made the git blush and scowl and, occasionally, stutter. "Damn."

"You might want to go see him, actually. Groveling's better in person, I've found."

***

On the second of January, Hermione finally got up the nerve to drive out to Malfoy Manor, a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel and slight fear fluttering around her brain. 

Malfoy had been the one blight, the one black spot, in her relationship with Millie. Since Millicent's friends had become her friends, it was only natural that her enemies became Hermione's as well. That he deemed Hermione a 'commoner' only sealed the deal.

Millicent and Malfoy had been feuding since primary school; although she had no idea what exactly sparked their mutual dislike, beyond the fact that the boy was a complete ass. Millicent called him the Mutant Albino Devil and the blond referred to Millie as the Sea Hag. Neither of them ever had any underlying fondness in their tones.

Malfoy was pale and short, and slept with anyone pretty, irregardless of gender - which excluded Millie, who was brash and solid as a Viking, and Hermione, who had long since given up trying to tame her hair and had little to no fashion sense. 

Blaise had grown up with Malfoy too, and Hermione suspected more than friendship lay between them, but she never asked. She didn't think she really wanted to know.

She was fairly certain they weren't having sex _now_ , though, but the thought caused her to pause at the end of the driveway for a brief moment before swallowing hard and rolling the car forward again.

The house was big and pretentious and was guarded by four stone gargoyles that glared at her with frozen snarls as she was buzzed in at the gate. The knocker was easily the size of her head, and a long-faced man with watery blue eyes opened the door nearly expressionless, gesturing her inside with a voice as droll as his employer's.

"Well, if it isn't the Sea Hag's lapdog," Malfoy sneered, sliding his sunglasses down his thin nose and arching a disdainful brow as the butler led her out into the solarium.

She wasn't surprised or hurt by the greeting, and felt a mixture of relief and dismay when she saw that Blaise clearly wasn't with him.

"Oh, he's here," Malfoy drawled, smirking. 

And then Blaise stepped out of the French doors and blinked at her, harsh winter sun angled bright on his dark face.

They stared at each other silently, until Malfoy snorted derisively and Blaise moved towards her, slipping his hands around her and murmuring "I would've come back" softly into her hair.

"Harry told me to grovel," she said, resting her cheek on his chest and clutching the sides of his shirt.

"Smart lad." She could feel him grin against her scalp.

"He said fighting about him was stupid."

"It was," he agreed.

She took a deep breath. "How long have we been going out?"

He pulled back and cocked his head quizzically, and Hermione had a brief moment of intense panic. _Oh gods, Harry was completely wrong about this._ But then Blaise's eyes clouded over and he hmm'd a bit and said, almost a question, "September? When I asked you to coffee."

And somehow the fact that Harry had been _right_ stunned her even more. "But... but we haven't... I mean. We haven't even _kissed_ , Blaise."

"Yes we have."

She barely refrained from rolling her eyes. "On the _mouth_."

"You haven't kissed your girlfriend, Blaise?" Malfoy cut in, sauntering towards them with a hand on his hip, sunglasses dangling from his fingers.

"Slow and steady wins the race, Draco," Blaise commented, unruffled.

The blond frowned. "And now you're quoting Aesop. Smooth." He shifted his focus to Hermione. "Blaise here has been miserable company. He's in love with you, which is possibly the most fucked up thing I've ever heard of, but since you've made this incredibly rude house guest smile, I'm extending an invitation for dinner." He turned back to Blaise, one brow arched. "I suggest you be a little more assertive with the Lapdog, as she's clearly too much of a peasant to appreciate subtlety. Not that I consider three months of some sort of bizarre platonic relationship with your girlfriend at all acceptable." He patted the black-haired man's shoulder companionably. "You're daft, mate." With one last semi-courteous nod at Hermione, Malfoy strode out of the room.

Hermione looked up at Blaise, both brows raised. "Slow and steady wins the race?"

"Er..."

"You know," she crossed her arms over her chest, "you could have at least told me we were dating." 

"You really didn't know at all?" he asked, light eyes narrowed slightly.

She threw up her hands. "How could I?"

"I slept in your bed," he pointed out, unwittingly echoing Harry.

"Particular emphasis on the verb _slept_."

"Well..." He trailed off, then took a small step backwards and fidgeted with the hem of his sleeves. "I..."

The long-faced butler, who'd been hovering rudely in the doorway, cleared his throat lightly and said, "Master Draco requests your presence for drinks in the Second parlor," and Hermione gave him a tight smile.

"Um... shall we?" Blaise asked, nodding his head towards the doors.

Hermione really didn't think, in the end, that they'd resolved anything at all.

***

At dinner, she sat across from a snub-nosed girl with dark eyes and thin lips. Her teeth flashed bright white when she talked and Hermione found it oddly gratifying that Malfoy insulted the society maven just as much as her. Apparently, no one was above his biting tongue. Not even his parents, who ate sedately at the entire opposite end of the table and bore the young blond's jabs with the same amused aplomb as Blaise. It was clearly the only way to deal with the pillock.

Awkwardness had settled heavily between her and Blaise, and she couldn't help but think this relationship business was harder than it looked. Words hung unsaid between them, but she didn't know what those words actually were. Even casual conversation felt stilted.

From the head of the table, Malfoy eyed them with vicious amusement, a cruel smirk curling his lips, and he prodded the princess with his butter knife. "It's like observing monkeys in a zoo, isn't it, Pansy?"

Pansy tilted her head to the side. "Quite," she said, but Hermione could tell she didn't really mean it, her countenance bored.

Placing an elbow on the table, Malfoy cupped his chin and stage whispered, "I wonder what they'll do next. Perhaps some grooming? Lord knows the bushy one needs it."

The girl's mouth twitched and genuine laughter reflected in her eyes. "Draco..."

"Oh, come on now, they don't mind. All in the name of science, you know."

Hermione started slightly when Blaise let out a laugh beside her. "Bastard," he chortled good-naturedly, and Hermione turned to look at him, her eyes wide with question.

He shook his head and smiled, stabbing his fork into a bit of meat left on his plate.

"Granger," Malfoy stated loudly, straightening in his seat. "I can call you Granger, yes? Granger, Blaise here is socially retarded. You're going to have to loosen up and show him some affection or you'll never get past holding hands. And Blaise," he swiveled slightly, pointing his knife at him, "Granger is obviously a poorly fed cow, and hasn't the Darwinian sense to seduce you--"

"What?" Hermione interrupted, brows furrowed.

Malfoy waved a hand. "Survival of the fittest, best genes passed down, reproductive drive--"

" _Poorly fed cow_?"

Blaise nudged her arm and bent down to whisper, "He rarely makes sense when he's rambling. You take the insight where you can."

"What Draco means," Pansy drawled, taking a sip of her wine, "is that you're obviously both sorts who can't properly begin something without a grand declaration. So go ahead, before he starts on about cross pollination."

Blaise's amusement proved infectious, and Hermione was surprised to realize that Malfoy, the weirdo, was actually growing on her. Pansy wasn't half bad either.

***

That night, Blaise whispered love words in her ear and she woke up with the sun, his body curled around her and his heartbeat slow and steady against her back.

***

Three days later, Harry came home with a handsome redhead who looked disturbingly like Percy, only with much more substance.

He was introduced to them as Ron, had a wide smile, and his blue eyes were clear and crinkled at the edges. Half the time he gazed at Harry with something akin to hero-worship, and Hermione liked him instantly. 

They bought a sofa bed for the living room and thought about moving into a larger flat.

***

Malfoy started showing up on alternate Tuesdays. 

If possible, Ron hated him more than Millie did, and Harry and Blaise thought it hysterically funny. Hermione had to admit their fights tended to be entertaining, as Malfoy rarely lost his temper normally, and his white skin grew unattractively blotchy in fits of anger. 

Then one Wednesday morning, Hermione woke to find Blaise standing shirtless in the doorway, hands on his hips, staring off into the living room, and he warned her wryly over his shoulder that she "probably shouldn't look."

Which made her immediately curious, of course, so she peeked around his arm and blinked at the three boys tangled up together on the pull-out couch, Malfoy's silver head tucked into the crook of Ron's neck, Ron's palm low on Harry's hip.

"He's not moving in," she said firmly, and Blaise nodded.

"We'll need a bigger place."

***

The first weekend in February, Malfoy, Ron and Harry took a mini-break, and Malfoy came back miserable.

"I'm in love," he said, dark smudges under his eyes and hair slightly mussed. Which was worrying, as he was always impeccably groomed on principle.

Hermione sat across from him at the kitchen table. "Well, um... have you told them?"

"Them?" Malfoy sneered. "Jesus, Granger, I'm not in love with Potter and _Weasley_. I'm in love with his _sister_ ," he sank his forehead into his hands, "Miss Ginevra Weasley. Ginevra. Makes her sound eighty and infirm. Introductions would be a nightmare. 'Have you met my wife, Ginevra? No, the gorgeous redhead over there, as that wizened creature is Old Lady McGonagall, Grandmï¿½re's bestest friend,' who, by the way," he growled out, "has the first name of _Minerva_."

"You're going to marry her?"

Malfoy tapped his fingers impatiently on the scuffed tabletop. "Obviously not, Granger. Pay attention here. _Ginevra_."

"I think it's pretty."

"You would."

"Was that a veiled insult to _my_ name?" she asked suspiciously, eyes narrowed.

"Nothing veiled about it, _Hermione_. Speaking of insults, where's the Sea Hag? She's a sight better at cheering me up then you are. You're as useless as Potty and the Weasel."

Hermione scowled at him. "She has a class."

"I'll wait," he said, then pushed back his chair and headed for the refrigerator.

When Millicent came home, he was deep in a pint of Moose Tracks, distracting Hermione from her Biology text with overly breathy, pointed sighs. 

Millicent's advice, of course, was to let it go. "Ron's never going to let you date his little sister anyway, let alone marry her."

"Christ, I was _depending_ on you Bulstrode! You're even more of a downer than your lapdog."

"If you keep at that ice cream you'll gain five pounds by nightfall," Millicent pointed out, unconcerned. "You can't possibly have forgotten your pre-pubescent struggle with weight." She turned to Hermione. "The boys all called him Puff in primary."

Malfoy scowled. "It's entirely not my fault I inherited Great-grandfather's metabolism. He was an imposing man in spirit." Dropping his spoon into the carton he got to his feet and stated imperiously, "I'm calling Carlos."

"Carlos?" Hermione queried.

Millicent snickered. "His personal trainer."

"Carlos will cheer me up," Malfoy ground out, glaring at them.

"I could make a crude comment here, but I won't, out of respect for Hermione."

"Don't hold back on my account," Hermione murmured, lifting her book and ducking her head. She smiled, strangely content to listen to Malfoy and Millie hurl insulting banter at each other across the kitchen.

She wondered idly when they'd stopped hating each other.

***

A week later, Hermione came home to find Ron, Harry and, oddly enough, Pansy crowded in the hallway in front of Millicent's room.

"What are you--"

Ron clapped a hand over her mouth and Harry shushed her loudly, while Pansy pressed her ear up against the thin wooden door.

"Millie has a boy over," Ron whispered excitedly, letting his palm fall away from her face.

"A boy?" Hermione couldn't recall a time, ever, that Millicent had brought home a boy. She dated, yes, but the girl had always refused to subject anyone to the chaos that was their flat. "Are they--"

The door flung inward and Millicent stood there, arms crossed and expression foreboding.

"Er..." Harry gave her a sheepish grin. "Too loud?"

Her brows lowered even further and her eyes shot daggers, and they were all just about ready to slink away quietly when a friendly face with messy dark blond hair popped up over her shoulder.

"Hullo," he said brightly, and the four of them blinked, then looked from the boy to Millie's dark countenance and then back again.

"Hello," Hermione offered, when everyone else seemed incapable of speech.

"I'm Ernie." He reached an arm out past Millie and Hermione tentatively took it. "Ernie Macmillan. Millie's been helping me with my end of term project."

Hermione blinked again, sending Millicent an incredulous look. The girl _never_ helped anyone with their projects. She wasn't very helpful on the whole.

Ernie stayed for dinner and didn't stop talking until they pushed him out the door, and even Blaise seemed rattled. But Millicent had a glow about her, so no one made any teasing comments. Hermione still wasn't exactly sure why Pansy was there.

***

Three weeks before the end of term, Millicent came home with her fingers stained red, and Hermione watched everything she touched carefully, making sure it didn't leave marks. When Ernie came over, he'd hold her hand and absently rub her skin, but the red didn't fade.

Pansy spent nearly every evening filing her pearl-pink nails on their couch and critiquing the boys' wardrobes, having practically adopted Ron and Harry, and one Tuesday she watched blandly as Malfoy and Ron had a shouting match over his little sister.

"It's fucking gross," Ron growled. "I've had sex with you! I'm _still_ having sex with you. You can't possibly date Ginny!"

"I've had sex with half the people in this room. You can't judge me on that," Malfoy hissed.

Ron's lips pulled back in a soundless snarl. "Like hell I can't." 

Hermione had stopped listening by that point, though, as half the people in the room clearly meant Harry and Ron and... Well, either the blond hadn't ever shagged Pansy, or Blaise was as much a Malfoy virgin as her and Millie. By the way Pansy operated Hermione highly doubted the dark girl had missed out on a romp in Malfoy's bed.

It shouldn't have mattered, but she sent Blaise a wide grin and mouthed "I love you" from across the room.

***

They never got a bigger apartment.

Not even when Oliver broke up with Percy and had to sleep on the floor in Millie's room, and then under the kitchen table on the nights that Ernie stayed.

When Hermione's fourth term ended and summer found their air conditioner broken, Malfoy refused to come round, stating he was allergic to sweat. Really, Hermione couldn't blame him. Hot bodies were in abundance at what Millicent had taken to calling 'The Commune.' 

But he sent a courier not-so-graciously inviting them to spend a few weeks at the Manor, and when they showed up, a slim redhead was lounging by the pool. Ron was stubbornly, sullenly silent for three hours.

Ginny was lovely, though, and Hermione had a hard time imagining Malfoy not eating her alive, until after dinner when she flicked the tip of his nose and told the blond to shut up. To everyone's immense surprise, Malfoy actually did.

His silence didn't last long, of course, but by then Ginny had sternly reprimanded her brother in a similar fashion, and Ron looked much like a kicked puppy. He behaved himself, though, and Hermione suspected that was all Ginny really wanted.

She wasn't entirely sure Ginny knew about Ron and Malfoy's relationship or Malfoy's relationship with Harry. But the younger girl went to bed alone, and Hermione spotted Malfoy slipping into her boys' bedroom just as Blaise decided he wanted a glass of milk.

Hermione wondered if she hadn't had the right of it from the first. 

***

Two days later, she chanced upon Ginny alone in the library, and sat gingerly on the edge of a green leather wing-backed chair, knotting her hands in her lap.

"I know what you're going to say," Ginny said, looking up from what looked like a pristine first edition of Faulkner's _Intruder in the Dust_ , which momentarily sidetracked Hermione, as she couldn't wrap her mind around anyone reading Faulkner for pleasure, let alone a doe-eyed redhead with fairly large breasts.

"Er..."

"I know about Draco and Ron."

"And Harry," Hermione added, just in case she wasn't apprised of the _entire_ situation.

Ginny nodded, a small smile playing about her lips. "And Harry."

"They love each other."

"In some weird, twisted way, yes," Ginny agreed, eyes nearly laughing.

"And you're... fine with that?" Hermione ventured tentatively.

She shrugged, narrow hands clapping her book shut. "Ron had him first, didn't he? Besides, Draco's not the easiest person to get along with. It's not as if I wanted to marry him."

"He wants to marry you," Hermione felt the need to point out. She couldn't really understand the girl's nonchalance about everything. But then, living with Ron, she'd learned that Weasleys hardly ever acted expectedly.

Ginny rolled her eyes. "He also wants me to legally change my name to Leona. Frankly, I doubt he's all there in the head."

"Well... no. You're right." Still, she bit her bottom lip and worried the hem of her shirt.

"Honestly, Hermione. Don't worry about me. The most I'm going to do is taunt Draco about his gay triangle of love." 

Hermione was horrified to feel a sudden protective urge towards Malfoy and swallowed down the compulsion to admonish the girl to 'be nice.' When had she started thinking of Malfoy as family?

***

She glared at Malfoy extra hard that night at dinner, just to make sure he didn't suspect she'd softened her view of him. She had a terrible feeling he already knew.

***

Hermione worried about Oliver's return and its effect on Harry, but she shouldn't have.

She thought Oliver would be jealous of Ron receiving all the attention Harry had previously reserved for him, but he wasn't.

She should have known that, though, as Oliver rarely had thoughts beyond the immediate, and could only focus on one thing at a time. Directly after Percy, he'd thrown himself into his work, and his California Dream was in the process of being re-realized.

He spent most of his time at Malfoy Manor on his laptop, conversing with an American lad named Pedro who'd advertised for a roommate and called him 'Ollie.'

Harry barely spared Oliver a passing glance, and Blaise sent her smug 'I-told-you-so' grins.

If she didn't love him so much, she'd hate him.

But that pretty much went for everyone at The Commune, if not in the same exact passionate sense. She used to think it was Millicent's fault. Blaise told her she had her own appeal, though, and that Millicent was merely the first to see it. 

Hermione thought that warranted a fairly hefty thank-you anyway.


End file.
